


Take my hand if you wish to fly

by Kajune



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Painter Dean, Soul Selling, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7979689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kajune/pseuds/Kajune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester struggles to make a living out of his paintings. When all seems hopeless, he decides life isn't worth living anymore. Until of course, a demon offers him salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/gifts).



It takes a lot of effort on the man's part not to throw the bottle away in frustration.

Usually, such a price for acrylic paint has never been a problem for him, but after a lack of sales on his part nearly emptied his wallet of all cash, the price is now ridiculously high.

He takes three deep breaths before he manages to set the black paint back on its shelf, next to the multitude of other colors which he will soon be needing. He glares at all the colors like they've personally offended him, and no one can argue that they haven't.

As he marches his way out of the store, the cashier calls to him in concern.

"Winchester, are you sure you don't nee--"

Palm raised, face scrunched up in a tight frown, and feet picking up speed, the man responds.

"Zip it, Gadreel."

The cashier does, and watches with wide, bewildered eyes as one of his regular customers leaves the store, with a loud bang of the door to accompany him. For all their years of knowing each other, Gadreel can attest that Mr. Winchester has never left without buying at least something.

Even if it is a baby-sized paint brush.

It worries him dearly.

 


	2. Doubt

He may have spared the paint bottles from his wrath, but Mr. Winchester cannot say the same for the many paintings scattered around his apartment. Each one was born out of hours of hard work and dedication, yet in this moment, the owner can only look upon them with scorn and distaste.

The room becomes a gigantic mess when the owner rips and shreds and tosses about the half-finished and fully-completed paintings. He kicks over buckets and punches the walls and doors. He claws and throws and barks at everything he can reach inside the place.

An empty bottle of black paint meets its end against the bathroom mirror, both shattering to bits.

In the man's green eyes, he sees his own life crumbling along with the glass shards.

It is after this very act of rage that the man, Mr. Winchester, gradually calms down. He moves lethargically back into the main room, and bears witness to his latest masterpiece.

The destruction of his home.

He picks up his wrecked wallet and manages to pull out a single dollar note and a few coins. He ignores the other contents and carelessly returns the wallet to the floor, to a spot which is now soaked in wasted paint and strips of colored paper.

A drawer next to the couch contains his bank book, and the man brings it out. The last income is dated five weeks ago.

Since then, no other man, woman, child, billionaire nor amateur collector has regarded his paintings as anything good. Admittedly, he doesn't sell much anyway. On a lucky day, three out of six hit the market and fill his bank account with cash, but on bad days, he sells at most, one painting a month.

This time, the man finds himself meeting an awful day.

Reviews imply that he lacks talent, that no matter what topic he picks, his skills do not improve and the more complex the image, the worse it looks. To prove this, there is even a written review, kept in the same drawer as the bank book. He got this through the mail, and while the rich man claimed to be giving gentle advice, the receiver was left feeling broken.

Self-confidence has never been one of his strong points, so to be told he can't actually paint and what he does sell are just lucky points, there is no wonder he spent quite a handful of his latest income on beer. Some of the bottles are still in the fridge, waiting to either rot themselves or rot him.

The letter reads:

> "Dear Mr. Dean Winchester, I have seen your work very often at Lawrence City's local art gallery, and while I do agree that you paint some nice pieces, most of the time, they are not worthy of a man's penny nor day, and much less his eyes. I sincerely recommend, out of the kindness of my heart, that you either revamp your style or spare the gallery visitors some mercy. Best wishes, Sir. Arnold Chunkberry"

There is no greater urge than to punch the man black and blue for pretending to care about his work. These kinds of letters are probably why so few newbies pursue a painting career, not because it's too hard, but because those with high tastes or massive egos always brush them off.

They probably do it so cruelly that newbies are often found hanging.

Unfortunately, Dean lacks the energy to go out and teach the man a lesson. His current state encourages him to forget the letter, put it back along with the bank book and try to breathe. There is no question in Dean's mind on whether he loves painting. A better question is _why._ Dean never really cared about the answer at first, but the more he painted, the more he found himself able to express his emotions. 

The pleasure of doing so drove him to choose this career path, despite being fully aware of the impending hardship. He didn't care. He _wanted_ to become a painter, for it was something that made him happy, and thus he decided that no one or anything could stop him. 

So why should one slimy rich guy have the right to brush him aside?

Sadly, it's not what the man said that has ruined Dean's career, but the truth in his words, how he's basically described the end result for someone like Dean in pursuing this career.

Poverty.

He can pretend all he likes, profess his love for his work all he wants, fact is fact.

He's not selling, and without money, he can't improve.

He can't paint.

Dean has done nudes to kittens to landscapes, and all have been a joy to complete, but only Dean feels this sense of passion for his own work. As he stares at the scattered mess in his room, Dean feels regret and sadness over his actions, but what use are the paintings?

Nothing, so why keep them?

Dean's mind thinks it can produce a dozen answers to that, but none solve his current situation.

He's not selling, and without money, he can't live.

Maybe Mr. Chunkberry was right, maybe he shouldn't be around to annoy people, to pain them with his existence, with his own personal needs.

He...must end it.

Dean Winchester must end his cruel self.

 

 


	3. Despair

It's funny how Dean can't even afford a rope, his last ever purchase, and even if he could, he doesn't have the motivation to leave his apartment to get one. Regardless, there isn't anywhere to hang this lump of excuses and no-good values, so he decides to cut away at the skin on his wrist, take a downward motion, as he learned that it was the quickest way to let the blood out.

Dean sits himself on the toilet seat, knife in hand, and slowly carves into his own flesh. It stings instantly, but Dean withholds his reaction, bites his bottom lip to keep himself from whining like the pathetic loser he already is.

Blood drips onto the porcelain tiles, dirtying them with his tainted bits.

By the time Dean is ready to carve out another line, his phone rings. He is startled from his slight reverie, his newfound love for destroying the unwanted. Dean wants to finish this, end the suffering, but the ringtone won't stop.

He covers the wound with his other hand and tromps out of the bathroom and into the messy gallery, basically his living room, and picks the phone up from where it managed to stay safe from Dean's rampage, on the kitchen countertop. Much of the area is covered in paint and residue of old paintings, but the phone is fine.

Sadly, the distance was enough to leave a mind-numbing trail of blood across his apartment, but Dean decides to answer anyway because now he knows who is calling.

"Hello, Dean-o."

It's his landlord, a guy who deserves to know the reason for a corpse in one of his rented rooms.

"Gabe."

Dean breathes, trying as he may to stay conscious and focused.

For some reason, Gabe doesn't sound too happy.

"You missed your pay day, for two weeks now."

That's right. Since the last income, Dean hasn't been able to pay Gabe his monthly rent. The other man has been kind enough to let him pass this long, knowing that last time someone refused to pay, they turned out to be a teenager smoking weed who also had a criminal record. Gabe was furious, promptly delivered the police to the guy's doorstep, and made it a rule to have everyone pay on time, or else leave.

Such leniency deserves more compassion, yet the cold way Gabe is speaking keeps Dean from saying any nice words.

"Don't get me wrong, Dean, I love you, like a brother, but I can't have people breaking rules like this."

"Gabe--"

"I know, I know, you have a hard time earning money. Everyone in this shitty apartment does, but I can't, and not just because of Lexy from five months ago, but because I don't actually own the place, you know? It belongs to my old friend."

Ah, Dean remembers now. Gabe is mostly an employee here, who takes care of the day-to-day management of the apartment since the real owner is off somewhere in Vegas. If Dean's foggy mind remembers correctly, his name was Balthazar.

The guy may be neglectful, but he is wrathful when someone doesn't do their job. It's why Gabe puts up some really tough rules, such as the no pet policy.

This led Becky, Dean's neighbor, to abandon her beloved parrot.

She cried that day.

"So Dean, you're the only one who hasn't paid in a while. Mary Poppins paid her overdue rent last week, so..."

"G-Gabe, I'm sorry."

"I know you are." Gabe sighs. "Prepare to be gone by tomorrow. You know the drill."

Dean does, so he deems the conversation over. He uses all his might to send the phone smashing against the wall without ending the call properly. It's bad enough that Gabe's last words were literally proof that he has no place in this world, he does not need to hear more bad news from anywhere else.

Blood has begun to pool heavily on the floor beneath him, and onto his clothes. Dean crumbles to the floor and drops his wounded arm to the side, as he gazes up aimlessly with only pain and sorrow to fill his senses.

The world nearly becomes completely black, peace nearly embraces him... 

Until he hears someone's voice.

"Dean."

Dean's eyes snap open, and before him, standing among the pile of his failed artwork, is a complete stranger.

Dark, raven hair and silver eyes, and a smile that promises redemption in a way that hurts.

Is he salvation, or simply a burglar?

Clad in black from head to toe, the man beams down at him with confidence, like he isn't looking at a suicidal man who is about to bleed to death in his kitchenette.

Somehow, the man looks like he found his own salvation in Dean.

With effort, Dean asks a question.

"Who...who, are you?"

The mysterious man's smile creeps wider.

"My name is Michael," He says smoothly. "and I am a demon."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended for Balthazar to be the landlord, but since Gabriel is one of Omano's favorite characters, I switched him out. :)


	4. Deal

"A-A demon?"

Is there such a thing?

In his blood-drained haze, Dean doesn't know what to believe, or whether his ears and eyes can be trusted. For all he knows, he could be talking to thin air. But there, after every blink and shake of his head, there stands a young human-looking man. His name's Michael, right?

Dean can barely keep his head up, and he's rather glad about that.

Time to move on.

"Dean."

Dean is brought back, but only faintly, by the tender call of his name. His eyelids are so heavy, he can barely look beyond the knees, yet somehow, the voice remains crystal clear, demanding almost, like its need for attention cannot be denied.

"I know what you wish for."

Dean manages a tiny smile.

"Death."

The man corrects him.

"No, you wish for success."

Dean forces his heavy head to look up, and indeed, the man is still present in his apartment, with no sign of mockery nor pity in his expression. What kind of answer is that? Can he not see this man attempting to die? Why would a man wanting to leave this world ever want anything but death itself?

He must be losing his mind, Dean thinks.

"I can give it to you, Dean."

Dean hates how he feels intrigued. Okay, so maybe he wants success, but he's not going to get it, and definitely without the supplies necessary and a place to live in. He has nothing to keep himself moving forward.

"...What?"

Still he inquires, likely because of some relentless part of him that yearns for help, for a way out of his moment of despair. Can this stranger really give it to him, what he wants? No logical answer to that question exists, still his heart wants a way out, and death doesn't look so desirable now that this man or being has made an offer.

"I can give you all the success in the world, in exchange, for your soul."

"T-The fuck?"

Dean's haze is getting worse and the blood won't stop pooling. His vision is going dark, and somehow he knows he heard clearly. His soul? Is this guy really a demon out to drag him to Hell? Does Hell even exist?

Dean has often thought about painting realms such as Hell, but it is a greater comfort to deny Hell as something tangible and think of as merely an imaginary world, too impossible to be real. He knows what sins he's committed and he'd hate to pay for them. He really does.

Naturally, Dean would decline such a suspicious offer, but already he finds himself interested, hungry for salvation.

"Give me your soul, Dean, and I will grant you unprecedented talent in creating art."

Can he really do that? Dean hates himself for asking, though he can't say it out loud. Too little energy left.

"I can. I will grant you this one wish, and after ten years, I will come to collect your soul."

"And drag me to Hell."

Dean says and proceeds to cough violently. He's struggling to breathe, yet the other man's voice continues to ring loud and clear. He's so tempted to just die, the pain he's in is too great, and the urge to just walk out of this state just aggravates his suffering.

He pleads for an end to this, a quick one.

Good or bad, it doesn't matter.

"Ten years, Dean. During that entire time, you are free." Dean heaves deeply, and somewhere in the distance, he can hear church bells ringing. "You will be famous and you will be loved." Dean feels bought by the latter phrase. _Loved_. How long has it been since someone loved him whole-heartedly?

Even Gabe, who so coldly told him to leave, doesn't love him in the way Dean so deeply wants.

It's another one of his sins, he supposes.

"H-H-How...do I...?"

He thinks this is a joke. At this rate, he's probably going to a false Heaven of sorts. He'll die, and end up in some fantasy world thinking he's got everything. He's sure of it. So long as it means he's dead and out of everybody's hair, he can deal with it though.

"You sign the contract with a kiss."

Fuck.

Dean was not expecting that.

Suddenly though, he feels Michael's presence up close, and he knows for certain, even with his eyes closed, that the other man has decided to get right up into his space and crouch over him, leaning forward until their lips are a mere inch away. The ice-cold breath blown into his face is a clear indication of that.

"Well, Dean?" A groan. "Yes or no?"

Dean bids farewell to whatever family he has left, and kisses the demon.

 


	5. Restart

For a while, there is nothing but silence and numbness. Gradually, Dean starts to feel his eyes. He squeezes them shut, blinks, then opens them, and what he sees is the inside of his own apartment, but what is miraculous is that everything - all his paintings and tools - are back in place, not damaged or scratched even the slightest.

The whole room lacks evidence of the vicious outburst Dean threw earlier. There are no traces of a broken man, not even blood. Dean looks down to find the cuts missing and his clothes clean. He's still slumped against a counter but everything seems fine.

Dean is shell-shocked.

Wasn't he about to die? Wasn't this room about to become his final resting place?

Did a demon just waltz in and steal his soul?

Dean doesn't feel any different. In fact, he feels much better than he has felt in over a week, with the exception of dread. Half of him wanted to believe the demon wasn't real and that in a short while, he was going to enter oblivion, but here, right now, he's still in his apartment, many paces away from death.

The possibility of the demon being real means that Hell and Heaven might be real, and maybe they are, maybe this is his Heaven, what it looks like. Maybe he is already dead.

Dean gets up and finds his cell phone in tact, right where he last left it. He searches the contacts list and finds Gabe listed as the last caller, about five minutes ago.

Five...minutes...ago.

Dean's jaw hangs in bewilderment.

He pinches himself, gives his face a nice slap and slams his head against the wall once. He doesn't wake up. This is real. All of this is real.

He really sold his soul to a demon.

And that means he kissed one too.

Dean's eyes grow comically wide.

He did not mean to go all homo on a demon, he just wanted to do one last stupid thing so his life would be less worthy, but here he is, back in business and far away from any magical land. He's alive, his heart's beating, and if that demon was telling the truth...

He can paint.

Out of temptation and curiosity, Dean checks out his supplies to find them packed with brand new paint bottles. His jaw hangs again. He slaps himself again too. Taking a blue and pink one, he begins painting a new picture.

It takes less than twenty minutes for Dean to witness his greatest masterpiece.

A gorgeous image of a landscape.

This can't be real.

But it is.

"Holy crap."

He tries again, picks up a blank board and begins painting, this time he picks something he deems hard to draw. In the span of an hour, Dean has created an exact replica of the Mona Lisa.

He's speechless.

That demon, Michael, was the real deal. He really did appear to Dean in a moment of despair and granted him real salvation. Dean has been given ten years to enjoy success, and then he will go to Hell. All excitement drops at the reminder of that.

Dean chooses not to dwell. He keeps on painting, and each one comes out looking beautiful.

He decides to paint one for Gabe as compensation, and after sunset, he rushes out of his apartment with a slutty nude painting. Gabe quickly accuses him of theft.

"Give me a few more days and I'll pay you, I swear."

Although Gabe doesn't regard Dean as a liar, he doesn't accept "I swear" or "I promise" easily, for some reason. He does however, acknowledge that Dean is magically a better painter than before, and offers to wait a while to see how Dean sells.

Dean makes a fortune with the first three paintings he puts out.

Money flies in rapidly afterwards, and Dean pays his rent five months in advance. He even offers to pay Mary Poppins a month advancement and she gives him a bear hug as a thank you. Dean is easily able to replace his new painting equipment, and Gadreel is happy for him. Dean apologizes for his bad behavior, and even offers Gadreel a free painting.

It's a secret between them that Gadreel loves kittens.

Dean's success drives Mr. Chunkberry up the wall with embarrassment and a bit of jealousy, and he tries to make it up to Dean by hoping to purchase his stuff, at double the price. Out of spite, Dean rejects him every time.

His paintings soon develop a fanbase, consisting of those who want to see Dean paint particular objects. These ones sell the highest. Dean even gets offers to receive models, and he's overly delighted about that. Life has never been so good before.

He obviously makes no mention of his mysterious deal with a demon, nor the kiss, nor the attempt at suicide. He keeps it all to himself, and during most nights, he ponders about it. He can clearly remember those silver eyes that stared down at him with admiration same as what he is receiving on a regular basis nowadays. It's as if the demon could see his true potential even before he unleashed it.

Dean doesn't think he has any real potential. What he can do now is all a gift, a very enjoyable gift, but a gift nonetheless, and he paid for it with his soul. It's a sad thought mixed with bittersweet moments, but in the end, Dean thinks he can live with what he has without much care, so long as he can paint.

One day, a fan makes a request for Dean to paint a demon.

Dean has rarely painted mythological creatures, and when he tries to come up with a nice image this time, only one comes to mind.

Michael.

 

 


	6. Reverence

"I _said_ , I ain't taking part in your perverted ideas, Becky, now leave me alone, and no, I don't sleep with Gadreel, for the last freaking time!"

Dean slams the door in Becky's face and sinks down onto the floor, his back to the wall. Becky usually shuts up once someone else's door is slammed in her face, and indeed, there is no more crazy insistence that he and his friend Gadreel are sexually involved.

Dean is not gay.

He is not.

Exhausted from his visit to the art shop and from Becky's voice, Dean doesn't bother moving. He remains seated as he brings forth his backpack and removes some of the fan mail he collected from Gabe. The guy might not like having his office cluttered with other people's stuff, but he admits to being genuinely proud of Dean.

Dean suspects he's also proud the establishment has a lot of charming women coming in, ready to go nude in various sorts of poses. Dean is not one to sleep with his clients for if he ever needs a girl to sleep with, there are good choices in late night bars.

He's afraid one of his clients might be married, or worse, married to someone important.

Gabe, on the other hand, might not possess such restraints. Given his candy addiction, this is likely the case.

The first few letters surprise Dean, because they all talk about how much they love his demon paintings. Yes, Dean hasn't stopped painting Michael since that first request. He finds he rather enjoys remembering the other's face and attire and putting it all on a white platform.

Apparently, fans and admirers deem his demon paintings to be his best.

90% of today's fan mail are compliments on the demon paintings.

Dean moves to where his unsold paintings are, and in stacks, there are more paintings of Michael, beautifully done and all with slightly different details. Some are up close depicting Michael's face clearly, while others depict him with bat-like wings or feathered white wings. There's even one with Michael crawling out of a volcanic pit. The first attempt looked too gruesome so Dean painted another one and sold it.

It earned him nearly one million dollars.

Dean's not sure why Michael has captivated him so hard. The demon literally bought his soul, and while the gift is great - awesome in fact - there's still the promise of Hell awaiting the human. It's undeniable that Dean has done enough bad to think he deserves damnation but that doesn't mean he's not afraid.

One fan said Dean puts a lot of extra effort into his demon paintings compared to other works. Upon close inspection, Dean can't deny how much more time and dedication he does use to perfect his Michael work.

They are on a whole new level compared to all the other successful paintings.

But why?

Is there something about Michael he doesn't know or doesn't realize?

Some fans ask who the demon's image is based on, and Dean sometimes replies with a lie that it's someone he made up through his imagination. Other times, he lies that he's using the face of a former bully. No one calls him a liar and Dean's glad about that.

He is never going to admit he met a real demon with that face, those eyes, that mouth, and that hair.

Never.

Michael is just a model for his paintings, right? _Right?_

Dean doesn't know who can answer that. He's never been obsessed with any one thing like this. His passion for painting is the closest he's ever come to being fixated on something until it looks unhealthy. One may argue that his (embarrassingly self-admitted) need for love is a good candidate, but Dean doesn't want to feel weak nor vulnerable.

He doesn't want to feel like he needs other people in order to survive.

He'll cherish the help, but he won't put his entire emotional and physical needs on someone. He'd done that for a while when he was a kid with his dad, and he was smart enough to see the consequences real early. He grew, became strong, and while painting doesn't display much of the manliness he prides himself for, at least he's happy.

He can be happy without anyone else, without ruining anyone else.

Dean decides that, as strange as his preference for drawing Michael is, he loves the paintings. They come out so beautifully Dean thinks he doesn't mind doing some more all the way until sunset. Gentle fingers brush over the surface of dried paint and a dazzling image, and Dean isn't entirely sure he drew it.

Heck, Gabe still thinks he stole someone's arm or brain to possess the skills he has, but Dean lets him buy the story that miracles are true and yes, even Dean deserves some of them, though only with a price tag on them.

Dean can't forget what he paid to have such artistic hands but he'll try not to sulk.

He'll just paint.

That has always managed to make him feel better.

 


End file.
